icer wrote of the letters of a dead comrade
to _Punch_ only a few weeks before his own death.

[Illustration: A BAD DREAM

SPECTRE: "Well, if you don't like the look of me, eat less bread."]

The French have taken Craonne; saluting has been abolished in the Russian
Army; and Germany has been giving practical proof of her friendliness to
Spain by torpedoing her merchant ships. A new star has swum into the
Revolutionary firmament, by name Lenin. According to the Swedish Press this
interesting anarchist has been missing for two days, and it remains to be
seen if he will yet make a hit. Meanwhile the Kaiser is doing his bit in
the unfamiliar role of pro-Socialist.

Newmarket has become "a blasted heath," all horse-racing having been
stopped, to the great dismay of the Irish members. What are the hundred
thousand young men (or is it two?), who refuse to fight for their country,
to do? Mr. Lloyd George has produced and expounded his plan for an Irish
Convention, at which Erin is to take a turn at her own harp, and the
proposal has been favourably received, except by Mr. Ginnell, in whose ears
the Convention "sounds the dirge of the Home Rule Act."

[Illustration: HIS LATEST!

THE KAISER: "This is sorry work for a Hohenzollern; still, necessity knows
no traditions."]

_A Garden Glorified_

Mr. Bonar Law has brought in a Budget, moved a vote of credit for 500
millions, and apologised for estimating the war expenditure at 5 1/2
millions a day when it turned out to be 7 1/2. The trivial lapse has
been handsomely condoned by his predecessor, Mr. McKenna. The Budget
debate was held with open doors, but produced a number of speeches much
more suitable for the Secret Session which followed, and at which it
appears from the Speaker's Report that nothing sensational was revealed.

The House of Commons, unchanged externally, has deteriorated spiritually,
to judge by the temper of most of those who have remained behind. It is
otherwise with other Institutions, some of which have been ennobled by
disfigurement.

A PLACE OF ARMS

I knew a garden green and fair,
Flanking our London river's tide,
And you would think, to breathe its air
And roam its virgin lawns beside,
All shimmering in their velvet fleece,
"Nothing can hurt this haunt of Peace."

No trespass marred that close retreat;
Privileged were the few that went
Pacing its walks with measured beat
On legal contemplation bent;
And In